


Recognition

by captainskellington



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Costume Parties & Masquerades, M/M, something of a cinderella au and yet... not.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 19:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3179633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainskellington/pseuds/captainskellington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patroclus didn’t need to ask who “he” was, he knew full well.<br/>He’d been living for this day for eight years now, some twisted cocktail of hope and dread seeping through his body every time he thought of it, which was often.<br/>He was back.<br/><em>He</em> was <em>back.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Recognition

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this is the most vaguely medieval thing you may ever read.  
> Just assume they're somewhere in Europe and pretend everything makes sense and you'll be fine.

“He’s back!”

The whispers were everywhere. They greeted Patroclus with every person he passed, down every corridor and around every corner he walked.

Not just his fellow scullery boys and girls and servants, either; even the nobility were in a ruckus about it. He kept his head bowed as always; doing as he was told, eyes averted, pretending not to hear unless he was given an order.

Patroclus didn’t need to ask who “he” was, he knew full well. He’d been living for this day for eight years now, some twisted cocktail of hope and dread seeping through his body every time he thought of it, which was often.

He was back.

 _He_ was _back._

 

***

Patroclus was seven when he was taken into the household of King Peleus; taken hostage as a warning to his father, a deterrent so that he wouldn’t breach the hard sought-after yet fragile peace treaty between their houses.

An unnecessary measure, Patroclus had always thought, as his father cared about him not one bit. Risk of injury to his son was not what he cared about ‒ many a time he had said explicitly, “you are no son of mine,” in a voice dripping with venom and malice. Though this was biologically untrue, Patroclus knew he had always been nothing but a disappointment to him.

What he did care about, however, was how his men would see him if he let his sole heir be abused for the sake of a pointless feud and a war where no ground was ever gained. Who would trust a leader who wouldn’t care for his own kin?

He had seen none of his household since his transferral, and he was glad of it.

Patroclus could not complain about the first years of his time in the palace ‒ because that’s truly what it was, in comparison to the measly keep he had been accustomed to. Peleus was kind and ensured he was well cared for, even up to the standards his own son was treated; educated, fed and watered alongside him, they even shared lodgings.

His son, Achilles.

Achilles was every bit as gentle as his father and even kinder still, though could at times be blunt and hurtful in his honesty. He was beautiful even at seven and welcomed Patroclus into his life as though he’d been keeping a space for him there his entire life, just waiting for him to arrive. He shared everything with him, never treating him as inferior despite that being undoubtedly the case.

Over the years they were trained together, side by side; in battle, mathematics, in history and in music, and much more besides. Each gave aid to the other whenever he could and the other was in need. They had smiles that were seen by no one but themselves; whenever Patroclus glimpsed the toothy grin that Achilles kept solely for him, he thought his heart would race out of his chest. They had a closer friendship than Patroclus would have expected to have with anybody in his wildest dreams.

He realised he was in love with him when they were twelve.

When they were older, Patroclus had always assumed he would be a glorified bodyguard of sorts to Achilles. And that was a position he would have been content to carry out for the remainder of his days, as long as he would be at the side of this golden boy every day.

Achilles’ mother and Peleus’ wife, Thetis, was never so warm.

She too was a transfer, but from another kingdom across the northern sea. She was a princess of a steely people, a gift to Peleus’ father to marry to his son, in an attempt to improve relations after some scandal or other regarding trading and piracy. She had never looked kindly upon Patroclus, failing to acknowledge him and merely doing so with the swiftest of bitten off sentences when she was required to do so.

It was her who convinced Peleus that it was in his best interests to send Achilles overseas for the remainder of his education, for tutelage by esteemed professionals in their respective fields.

They were thirteen by then, Achilles already beginning to stretch, his body turning into that of a young man. Patroclus too was growing, but when Achilles turned to clap him on the shoulder and regard him with a delighted grin he still had to raise his chin to meet his eyes.

“The Iron City, Patroclus! It is a long voyage; I hope you don’t get seasick.”

The air hung thick with something unsaid. Patroclus had known as soon as they entered the room that nothing good would come of the conversation to be had.

“Achilles,” the king said, slowly, gently. “You go alone.”

Patroclus lowered his gaze as Achilles’ grip tightened painfully, his head whipping back to his father.

“No,” he said. “Not without Patroclus.”

 

***

Excused from his duties for the night, Patroclus hurriedly made his way down to the servants’ quarters. He flitted through narrow all but abandoned passageways and down the back staircases like a shadow, his presence unacknowledged by the few he did pass.

Eight years. Achilles was twenty-one now. As was Patroclus, but he had lived the last eight years, had seen them firsthand. He hadn’t seen Achilles’, hadn’t heard a thing from him since he’d left early that bright spring morning, three weeks after the king and queen had put their foot down.

Achilles had slipped into his bed that night, like he had done a thousand times before and Patroclus a thousand times in return. From nightmares, from excitement, from just needing the closeness of another human being. “Patroclus,” he’d said, voice low, insistent. “I’m coming back. I’ll come back to you.”

Patroclus slipped into the kitchens, empty at this time of night. He shut the door by leaning on it and rubbed his face with his hands.

 _I’ll come back to you_.

And now he was here, with no Patroclus to come back to.

Patroclus’ father had been killed the very same week Achilles left, Patroclus’ old home ‒ but it had never been his home ‒ destroyed by another lord he’d slighted, one of many. Nobody mourned for him, Patroclus himself felt entirely indifferent.

But the queen ‒ he was sure it had been her, though to this day he would never know what he had done to deserve her hatred ‒ had speculated that they no longer had any need for him and could do with him what they wished. Peleus, feeling pity, had him removed from their household and sent to work for another the very next day. He was still in the royal court, but as a servant. But he was not permitted into the grounds he’d spent the best years of his life in.

He hadn’t resisted. Perhaps if he had pleaded with Peleus the king would have let him stay, but at the time he had felt so lost, completely out of place in the palace without Achilles, and this gave him distraction.

There was no use thinking about it now: what was done was done and had been for years. At any rate, being alone in those halls under the eyes of Thetis had never appealed to him so much that he would have asked to return, and at that the king had passed away months ago.

Patroclus sighed. He often wondered what Achilles had been told, if anything. Had he returned expecting to be greeted by his childhood friend?

It was probably better this way. Achilles was a prince, the golden boy of the family, of the country even. He would never have his feelings returned. In all those years, he had probably forgotten about his old companion; made new and better acquaintances.

But oh, did he miss him.

Just one more time, he wished to see him. Just once.

And he had one chance.

 

***

A week of festivities was to be held to celebrate the prince’s return before the preparations for his coronation begun. It would be a much needed morale boost for the kingdom after the months of mourning the king.

There was to be a magnificent ball each night on the final three nights of the festival. Open to all of the court as well as visiting dignitaries, security would be nigh impenetrable without the official invitation, seal of the king et al. But the servants from the entire court were being called into the palace to aid the permanent staff, so Patroclus had an in.

He confessed his plans to Briseis, his fellow servant and one of the most respected in the household. She was one of the few who knew who he was, where he’d come from. She was his closest friend, and promised to aid him in any way she could no matter how much he protested, fearing for her safety.

Briseis came to him one night and fished a bundle wrapped in a sack out from her skirts. “It won’t be missed, don’t fret. Lord Odysseus has not been slim enough for this for many years now, it was collecting dust in a forgotten trunk.”

“Briseis, you shouldn’t have risked this,” Patroclus hissed, but he pulled the bundle close to his chest nonetheless. “Thank you,” he whispered. She nodded in reply before slipping away.

The tunic was of a rich maroon colour. The design was a couple of years outdated, and as Odysseus was a giant of a man it was a little long on Patroclus so that it almost appeared to be made for a woman, but he’d take what he could get.

Under his cot in the sleeping quarters, Patroclus had a small trunk. In it he kept a few precious belongings ‒ heaven only knew what had possessed him to do so, but he was thankful now ‒ what little remained from his days with Achilles. Included in this were a cape and trousers of an ashen grey, both of which were now too short on him by inches, the trousers just a little too tight ‒ he often wondered if Achilles had continued to outpace him in growth; now he supposed he would find out soon ‒ but they would hopefully go unnoticed in the crowds of the celebration.

He would steal away into the great halls that first night, keep away from anyone who would recognise him, be watchful of the servants and the guards, and look upon the boy ‒ man, now ‒ he once loved for one last time, and that would be it.

  
  


(Oh, who was he kidding.

He still loved him.

Always would.)

 

His stomach turned as he returned his belongings to their hidden place; from joy or fear, he did not know.

 

***

They were sent to the palace early in the morning to help prepare for the evening. Patroclus’ bundle was safely hidden under the plain tunic that was standard issue amongst the servants of the court, secured tightly by his belt so that it wouldn’t slip. He hadn’t thought to procure more appropriate sandals, so he just hoped nobody would take too much notice of the shabby leather strapped to his feet.

Too late to worry about it now, anyway.

The morning and early afternoon passed in a blur. There were floors to polish and flowers to arrange and dishes to prepare and tapestries to be aired and furniture to move and instruction after instruction to heed. Patroclus’ head spun, his hands and knees ached, and he paused to surreptitiously reposition the bundle under his tunic before it slipped fully from it’s place.

He was loathe to admit to himself that he kept glancing anxiously up every time a door opened or footsteps were heard.

“The prince will be busy with preparations for his coronation,” Briseis murmured from behind a glorious bouquet of flowers. “I doubt you’ll see him before this evening.”

Patroclus gave the smallest nod. He had suspected as much, yet still he did not know whether he was comforted or disappointed by this.

Before long it was time to retreat to the kitchens to have duties distributed between the remarkably large collection of servants on hand. To Patroclus’ relief, the head servant merely pointed to people at random to give them duties, barely sparing any of them a glance. He had feared that the man would perhaps notice his absence when he slipped away, but the numerous new faces would be working in his favour, it would appear.

Soon, strains of song could be heard as the musicians strategically spread throughout the open rooms of the palace began to play. They hurried to their positions by columns, by the banqueting tables skirting the walls of the grand hall, by doorways, ready to greet guests at the entrances.

Patroclus and Briseis, with many others, were tasked with circulating amongst the guests and offering them perfectly arranged selections of meats, cheeses, fruits, breads from gleaming platters while they waited for the main event to begin with the arrival of the prince.

They were strictly instructed to keep to the edges and the far end of the hall once the more important dignitaries arrived; the royal household’s own servingmen and women would be permitted to approach the likes of the prince, and they were not to make eye contact with anyone even if addressed directly. With that information, Patroclus’ dim hope that he could see Achilles without his disguise vanished completely.

As the first wave of nobility swept into the hall, Patroclus’ face paled. He could see Briseis looking at him with a brief flash of panic, but he neglected to acknowledge her as his mind raced.

He hadn’t even considered that the event would be a _masked_ ball.

He swallowed nervously and fidgeted on his feet, professionalism be damned. Thankfully, it appeared that many guests were removing their masks to speak, to find acquaintances, to eat. He would just have to hope for the best.

The din in the hall rose to a loud thrum over which the music was only barely distinguishable as the crowds thickened, and suddenly Briseis was at his elbow. With a swift movement, she had slipped the remaining treats on his platter to her own, and placed his platter underneath hers so it couldn’t be seen. She would take it to the kitchen and add it to the pile of others when she went to get a new platter, brimming with fresh food, and nobody would be any the wiser.

“Good luck,” she whispered with a flash of a smile. He touched her shoulder gratefully and crept out of the hall, keeping to the walls with his head bowed. Once he reached one of the doors he pretended he was on his way to the kitchens, but walked straight past it until he reached a secluded corridor that the partygoers had yet to discover.

He then ducked behind a pillar and quickly changed into his other outfit. He hesitated for a moment, not having thought out what he would do with his servant garbs, then resigned himself to stuffing it out of sight behind a statue and hoping it would be there when he returned later.

Taking a deep breath, he headed back into the hall just as a fanfare sounded. Patroclus’ breath froze in his throat, heart racing. The elaborately decorated doors at the far end of the hall were opened, and there was a resounding cheer.

He couldn’t help himself, he slipped between what must have been hundreds of people to get near enough to see the newcomers, barely remembering to steer clear of the men and women he had been working with for the entirety of the day, lest they recognised him.

The sight of Achilles was a punch to the gut. Standing there with his arms raised, inclining his head humbly to the crowd, he was no longer the lithe boy Patroclus always saw in his mind’s eye. He was built like… Well, like a king. Like a statue, the most beautiful person he had ever seen in his life, as before, but now with the added bulk and height and presence that came with reaching adulthood as a royal. Or maybe that was just Achilles.

 _Achilles, Achilles, Achilles,_ the whispers were all around him, or maybe just in his head. He still had the gorgeous golden curls Patroclus had tugged at when they play-fought and wrestled as children, still the gleaming toothy smile. He gasped in a breath, lungs screaming for air as a surge of emotion washed through his entire body.

How had he ever thought that he could stop being in love with this man?

He watched as the man ‒ _Achilles, Achilles_ ‒ stepped off to the side to speak with a nobleman, grasping his hand in greeting. Patroclus was jostled to the side as people began to take their places to resume dancing as they had before. Dizzy, but not wanting to let Achilles out of his sight, Patroclus moved out of the way only to stumble into somebody’s side.

He tore his eyes from Achilles to apologise, then dread sank his stomach as he recognised the man; Chiron had been their tutor, and Patroclus saw in his eyes the moment he recognised him in return, dashing all hopes that he had changed enough that he no longer resembled his younger self. Chiron, who knew Patroclus should not be here, who knew he wasn’t supposed to be on the grounds. He narrowed his eyes, and Patroclus’ throat locked up. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but stare in panic at the man.

“My friend,” Chiron spoke warmly, surprising Patroclus. “You have dropped your mask!” He offered out a hand, on which lay a dark grey mask made of a pliable material, studded with dark stones and with a fan of black feathers along its top edge. It was secured around the head with a length of black ribbon, and Patroclus accepted it with a shaking hand.

“Thank you,” he croaked, somehow making his throat work again. Chiron gave a short nod, watching as he tied it on.

“Take care,” Chiron warned, and Patroclus took this as a dismissal, hastily retreating to another part of the dancefloor.

A young woman with a mask extravagantly adorned with feathers of every colour offered him her hand and he took it, as he was unable to spot Achilles amongst the crowds anyway, letting her lead him towards the other dancers.

He took his leave with a bow after three songs, and despite searching the room with his eyes during every turn, he could not spy Achilles. Perhaps he’d masked himself. Patroclus deflated at the thought of not getting to see his face again, then got distracted by Achilles’ name being uttered just behind him.

“‒has yet to select a bride, you understand,” a young woman was saying, mask removed, her eyes sparkling bright.

“Keep dreaming,” her companion said with a roll of her eyes.

A bride, thought Patroclus. Of course, if he were to be king he would be expected to choose a queen, to produce heirs… It was probably considered unusual that he had yet to do so, although he had been preoccupied with his studies thus far. He swallowed hard and turned to move somewhere, anywhere away from this talk, his eyes stinging.

In doing so he crashed into somebody, nearly knocking the both of them off of their feet, and reached out without a second’s hesitation to grasp their arm and keep them righted, even as they did the same.

The man’s mask slipped, but Patroclus already knew; nothing could disguise Achilles to Patroclus’ eyes. His heart was pounding, his blood roaring in his ears.

“I’m sorry, I must learn to look where I’m going,” Achilles smiled, and his voice was deep and pure, so unlike and somehow irrevocably similar to the clear tones of his youth. Patroclus thought he might cry, he was so close, their hands grasping each other’s arms, he could hardly breathe, hardly think, all he wanted to embrace his old friend, who didn’t know him now, who was so breathtakingly beautiful up close, who was every bit as perfect as he remembered him being‒

Who was regarding him with an amused expression, yet something else was brewing in his eyes. He raised his eyebrows.

“Are you alright?” Achilles asked, and Patroclus realised he’d been waiting for a response.

“Oh, no, I’m‒” he cleared his throat and started again. “No need to apologise, the fault was entirely mine.” His gaze raked over Achilles’ face, trying to memorise every detail, new and old. There was a scar on his left cheek that had never been there before, his skin was shades darker from sun exposure, his jawline defined and strong. But he still had the same gleam of mischief in his eyes, still the colour of pine needles, still the same smile.

Still the same Achilles. Still the man he loved.

But everything was different now.

He hastily released Achilles’ arm, and Achilles did the same at a more leisurely pace. Patroclus was intensely grateful for his mask in that instant, he could only imagine his own stricken face, so clearly displaying every thought and emotion that passed his mind. Achilles could always read him like a book.

“No harm done,” said the prince, still staring at him even as he lifted his hands to reposition his mask ‒ cream coloured, elegant and patterned with feathers, it was studded with small brilliant diamonds, tapering off in the shape of wings at his temples. “Take care not to go knocking into the musicians, though. I daresay they won’t take it kindly, nor will the dancers.” He was smirking, and Patroclus couldn’t help but laugh in reply.

“I will do my best,” Patroclus said, trying to keep his voice level.

“Enjoy the rest of the night‒ well, nights, I suppose,” Achilles said, taking a step backwards and bowing to him with a playful smile.

“You too,” Patroclus whispered, but Achilles was already out of earshot.

He stood there dazed for a while, heart swelling in his chest, until suddenly a platter was brought to his eye level.

“Briseis,” Patroclus whimpered.

“Meats?” she offered politely, then added under her breath. “I know, I saw. I’m sorry.”

Patroclus took something from the platter ‒ he had no idea what ‒ and stared at it in his hand.

“Stay strong, Patroclus,” she whispered, then slipped away again.

He sighed and ate the treat, then committed himself to finding Achilles again. This was what he occupied himself with for the rest of the night, dancing with a few more guests ‒ male, female, he didn’t even notice ‒ keeping a careful distance, only retreating when he saw Achilles’ face turn in his direction, which it did more than once.

By the time he decided to slip away from the party he was aching from head to toe, but not from the dancing, nor all the hard work from the morning; it was as though the pain in his heart was being pumped through his entire body, the longing for Achilles taking over his whole being.

He spotted a familiar face by the door as he went to leave and headed towards him; thankfully he was alone, and appeared to be waiting for someone.

“Chiron, I should‒” he fingered the borrowed mask as he spoke, but was interrupted by Chiron’s raised hand.

“Return it to me two nights from now,” Chiron said lowly, and left him there stunned.

Patroclus quieted. He would come back. He shouldn’t, tonight had been enough of a risk as it was. But this was Achilles.

He might never get the chance to be so close to him ever again.

He would return.

 

He barely remembered to collect his servant’s tunic before he left, ducking behind a tree to change back into it and hiding his bundle back under his belt, mask included.

 

***

“Patroclus,” Briseis said hesitantly, then sighed. “I can’t stop you, I know. This is your decision, but just please, be careful.”

They were on the same path as the morning previous, making their way back to the palace to clean up from last night and set up for the fresh events of the night. They had left earlier than necessary so as to take their time and take in the festival in the streets before working. The marketplace was thriving; children chased each other around the stalls, vendors chatted to each other and customers with easy humour, laughter was all around, music drifted from several different side streets.

Patroclus paused to trace the shapes of a selection of masks at one of the stalls. They were plain dyed cloth, nothing near the quality of those the nobility had been wearing. He pressed a palm to the waistline of his tunic, feeling the tiny precious stones of Chiron’s mask even through the fabric.

“I just can’t stay away,” he said softly.

Briseis touched his shoulder and spoke gently. “You’re going to have to, my friend. Come the morning after next, you and he will live separate lives again. Just remember that.”

Patroclus nodded. That much he knew, but he wanted to push the thought from his mind for as long as he could before coming to terms with it. Behind the stall, a young girl smiled at him. He returned the gesture before moving on to another stall, this one selling bracelets and pendants decorated with chunks of quartz.

Briseis ran her fingers over one longingly, darkened leather with a dusky pink stone, and Patroclus tugged it out from under her hand. “Excuse me, how much for this one?” Ignoring Briseis’ protests, he counted out the appropriate change from the pouch at his belt and received the bracelet in exchange. He thanked the vendor and turned to Briseis with a grin.

“Patroclus,” she whined, but her eyes darted to the trinket and Patroclus handed it to her with a flourish. Behind him Patroclus heard a quiet, peculiar sound and ignored it, assuming it to be a child at play. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Yes, but I’m not all too good at doing things I should rather than things I shouldn’t, am I?” Patroclus gave a lopsided grin. Behind him, a gentle strain of lyre music drifted from another street on a warm gust of wind.

Patroclus turned his face towards the sound, but couldn’t locate its source.

“We had better be on our way,” Briseis said, and when he turned she had the bracelet securely fixed around her wrist.

They went, completely unaware that a head turned to follow them as they passed.

 

***

The day’s work somehow passed slower than the day before, Patroclus knowing what he did now about how the night would progress, knowing he was only a matter of hours away from seeing Achilles again. He was still nervous, his hands shaking as he went about his tasks, but all he could think about was seeing his face up close again.

Finally, what must have been hours later than the previous night due to the fact that there had simply been no opportunity to slip away, the hall was thrumming with energy and Briseis was taking his platter again. The palace was busier this night by far, Patroclus was hard pushed to find somewhere he could get changed without being interrupted. Eventually he slipped into a side corridor and swapped his clothes, this time dropping his other tunic into a vase painted with scenes from some long forgotten hero’s tale.

He was just straightening up to find his way back to the hall when a figure appeared at the end of the corridor.

“Excuse me! You shouldn’t be back here,” Patroclus froze, he knew that voice. It was his master and the previous owner of his tunic, Lord Odysseus. He only had a moment to be thankful that he’d put his mask in before the man was striding towards him.

“I’m sorry,” Patroclus said, trying to disguise his voice by pitching it lower than usual. “I was returning from the lavatory, I must have got turned around,” he continued, looking around as though bemused. “Could you redirect me back to the grand hall?”

“Gladly,” Odysseus jerked his chin to the side. “Follow me.”

As they reached the hall, Odysseus stopped him with a hand to his chest. “Have we met before?”

Patroclus frowned, his heart pounding. “Not that I recall. Thank you for taking your time to shepherd me.”

Odysseus opened his mouth to speak again, perhaps to ask his name or what house he hailed from, but was interrupted when a couple of new arrivals pushed in between them. Patroclus took the opportunity to make fast his escape, sending a brief prayer to whatever deity was giving him so many lucky breaks.

Which was, of course, when he came face to face with Thetis.

Unmasked, she was every bit as terrifying and beautiful as he remembered her, dressed all in black as respect for her late husband demanded. He broke eye contact and sank to his knees immediately, joining the guests nearest him.

She glared at him until he did so, but otherwise didn’t seem to recognise him. She was speaking to the room at large.

“Unfortunately, our prince will not be joining us this evening as he has other matters to attend to,” she said, as though finishing a speech. “He sends his apologies, and will return tomorrow night.”

Then she was gone, sweeping through the crowd that parted before her as though she were a rock in a stream.

Patroclus frowned. He knew when she wasn’t telling the whole truth, and this was one of those times. His heart sank with the realisation that he wouldn’t be seeing Achilles tonight, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it was that he was really doing.

He wove through the crowd aimlessly, wondering if he shouldn’t just leave and return the next night. Was it really worth the risk of getting caught if Achilles wasn’t there and he wouldn’t be able to come back to see him another day? No, he decided. Shoulders slumped, he decided that would probably be for the best.

He turned, beginning to contemplate whether it would be better to return to serving or just sneak back into the servants’ quarters for the night, and stumbled as he walked straight into someone who caught him by the hand.

“Careful there, clumsy. We _have_ to stop meeting like this,” the man smirked, and oh, hell.

Ah. So _that’s_ why Thetis had been so ill at ease.

“I‒ your mother said you weren’t going be here,” Patroclus stammered, eyes wide.

Achilles’ eyes were startlingly bright beneath his mask ‒ a different one from the night before. His clothes were different too; a lesser quality than even Patroclus’, his tunic was a deep blue - the same colour as his mask, which looked of a similar standard to the ones Patroclus had been looking at earlier in the marketplace. He had also done something to his hair to darken it, concealing that telltale lustrous gleam that so clearly revealed his identity.

“Perhaps that’s what she was led to believe,” he smiled, and Patroclus fell in love with him more every time he spoke.

“And why would she have been led to believe such a thing?” Patroclus found it hard to speak when Achilles had a firm hold of his hand and appeared to have no intention of letting go.

Achilles shrugged and took a step back, still not releasing Patroclus from his grasp. “There is a chance that I left the grounds earlier unnoticed and to official knowledge I have yet to return,” he said, then tugged at Patroclus’ hand. “Dance with me.”

Patroclus went willingly, grateful for every moment spent with the man.

“I can only hope you’re more graceful when you dance than when you try to manoeuvre your way through crowds,” Achilles’ lips twitched in amusement as they swept onto the floor, unnoticed amongst the other dancers. This felt as natural as breathing to Patroclus; in their secluded childhoods the only partner each of them ever had was the other, and so to this day the only person Patroclus had ever danced with was the man guiding him across the floor now.

He felt a pang in his heart which he tried to disguise as best he could when he spoke. “Hardly,” he said in reply to the tease. “You’ve merely caught me at unfortunate times ‒ caught in the most literal sense, really. I’m usually very lightfooted. But don’t change the topic, I’m curious now. Why leave the palace? Why not let them know you’d returned?”

Achilles stopped and pulled Patroclus close into the correct hold; so close that Patroclus feared he would feel the rapid _thudthudthud_ of his heart through the material of his tunic. The muscles in his side twitched as Achilles gently gripped him there, his hand large and pleasantly warm. In turn Patroclus grasped his shoulder with his free hand, and they began to move.

“Because,” Achilles answered. “I had something I needed to check up on. As for the latter, I hardly feel like devoting my entire life to greeting hundreds of people I’ll never see again. I might as well make the most of my last few days of being a prince rather than king, might as well enjoy one night of the festivities.”

 _Then why on earth are you wasting time with me?_ , Patroclus wanted to ask, but he resisted the temptation. Instead, he decided to clear up something that had been bothering him, in the guise of a jest. “Something to check up on? Or some _one_?”

Achilles’ grin faded suddenly. “What do you mean by that?” he asked, his voice as guarded as his expression.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Patroclus forced a grin. “Dare I say some lucky maiden has turned the prince’s head?”

Something curiously like relief rippled through Achilles’ body, and then he was schooling his expression into one of playfulness once more, though Patroclus hadn’t missed the tension leaving his body.

“No,” Achilles said softly. “Not quite that.”

The song they were dancing to ended, transitioning smoothly into something fast-paced and joyful. Achilles’ face lit up as if a candle was illuminating him from within and Patroclus laughed, partly from relief at the answer he’d just received and partly because of the pure joy brought on by the music.

Growing bold, he pulled Achilles closer and together they dashed around the floor, twisting and spinning at great speed along with the rest of the dancers. Delighted laughter filled the hall as more and more partners joined in, bumping into each other and shouting with mirth, skirts flying and masks slipping and utter chaos ensuing.

Patroclus had forgotten how quick Achilles was capable of being and soon found himself losing control as Achilles began to maneuver them faster and faster through the other dancers. Through some luck or miracle not once did they collide with any of the others on the floor, which Patroclus put down to divine interference as neither of them were looking where they were going.

Achilles’ eyes hadn’t left his in what seemed an age.

The music built and swelled and soared around them, then as soon as it had started it was over. All movement on the floor ceased in a second, and then breathless cheering and applause rose up for the musicians.

Patroclus noticed none of this. He stood, chest heaving, gaze locked on Achilles’. They were but inches apart, and Achilles’ breath came so strong Patroclus could feel it teasing the curls on his forehead. He felt his heart would have been racing even if they hadn’t been twirling energetically around the floor only moments ago.

Slowly Achilles lifted a hand, then his palm rested under Patroclus’ jaw, his long fingers gently pressed against his cheek. Patroclus leaned into the touch, eyes slipping shut as he drank in the moment, trying with all his might to commit it to memory. Longing bloomed from his heart like a bird spreading its wings and all at once he felt restricted by everything; by his ribcage, by his body, by the crowd, by the palace.

He took a step backwards, face stricken. The movement served to let Achilles’ hand slip from his face, left hanging in the air between them like an unspoken sentence, only to pull at the other hand Patroclus’ fingers were still entwined with.

“I must go,” he choked, feeling his eyes burn as Achilles’ face fell, noticeable even obscured by the mask as it was. This wasn’t fair on him, he shouldn’t even be here, if he found out who Patroclus was ‒ he didn’t even want to think about what would happen to him, and to Briseis for helping him. Trespassing when banished was not, he imagined, an act that would garner no punishment, especially not at the hand of Thetis.

He released his hand, taking another step, and Achilles followed him.

“You’ll return tomorrow?” Patroclus could count on one hand the amount of times he had heard Achilles be anything less than certain, but this was one of those times.

Patroclus hesitated. He should say no, he knew it, this was already harming them both too much to bear, would only make it worse when they finally parted.

And yet…

“You will see me.” Patroclus’ hands felt cold with Achilles’ absence, despite him being mere feet away, and he turned before he could see Achilles’ reaction. He slipped through the crowd at as fast a speed as he could muster, checking behind him as he went to make sure Achilles didn’t see where he went.

Once out of the hall, it took him only a matter of minutes to locate his tunic and bundle it into his hands, striding fast out of the palace with his head lowered, trying to will the inexplicable tears that had sprung to his eyes away.

He was but paces away from the building when he heard him.

“Wait,” called Achilles from the palace doors. Patroclus halted and turned half towards him, careful to keep the other tunic out of sight. “I never caught your name.”

“No,” said Patroclus with a sad smile. “You didn’t.”

He slipped into the shadows of the path home before Achilles could reply, trying desperately to ignore the sorrow that flooded his soul as he did so.

Only one night remained.

It would be better this way.

 

(...Right?)

 

***

“Was that him?”

Patroclus groaned, rolling over in his cot and away from Briseis’ whispered query. The exertion of the last two days and nights was finally beginning to take its toll, particularly in his leg muscles due to the leap from long misuse into dance after dance with Achilles.

She prodded him, impatient.

Patroclus sighed. He rolled back to face her. “Was what him?” he asked, squinting at her in the light. She was already dressed for the day, and with a glance around at the nearly-empty quarters he realised he probably should be in the same position.

“The boy keeping you occupied on the floor all night, was that the prince?” Briseis asked again, evidently excited. “The queen said he wasn’t there, but…”

“Yes, that was him,” Patroclus said, swinging his legs out of the cot and rummaging around for his clothing. “The queen, however, was not privy to this information,” he grinned at her.

“How scandalous,” she deadpanned. “I’d love to hear what you spoke about whilst dancing the night away, but I’m afraid if we don’t leave in the next 20 seconds you may not be eating until dinner.”

Much to Patroclus’ great amusement, Odysseus didn’t even spare him a second glance when he gave his servants leave to make their way to the palace. On the way he relayed the events of the night to Briseis, who scolded him for nearly getting caught.

He attempted to appease her (and his growling stomach; they had missed breakfast after all) by buying two freshly baked loaves from a market stall they passed, which the last of his few coins went to. A worthy cause, really.

He nearly burnt his lip biting into his, it was so warm.

Then he heard it again: the gentle notes of a lyre being plucked carried over from a side street. Patroclus stepped to the side to listen for a moment, watching the hooded musician with interest. His hands were bandaged, perhaps he was a beggar? But a talented one, at that…

Patroclus frowned; something was off.

Briseis nudged him. “Are you forever dawdling? Keep moving, you have work to go to.”

With that the niggling doubt vanished, pushed to the back of his head to pick at later on; or never, be that the case.

 

***

When the time came that night to leave the hall and get changed, Patroclus did so in record time. He was anxious to return to the hall and look for Achilles, quickly tying his mask and taking rapid strides towards his destination after throwing his tunic carelessly into a corner.

When he entered the room, he could barely see the far wall for people. He gritted his teeth, then began to slip carefully between them, keeping his eyes peeled for a mask of cream or blue only to be disappointed by the wearers of similar masks each time.

By the time he’d completed one circuit of the room, he was frustrated with his failure to locate the prince and irritated by the numerous occasions he had been bumped into in the last half hour. Achilles was still nowhere in sight, so Patroclus decided to exit the hall and linger in the corridor for a moment to see if he could intercept him on his way in.

“Patroclus!” said a warm voice, and he turned towards it with a frown, unable to see who was addressing him in the crowd.

“Hello?” he replied, realising his mistake a heartbeat too late.

He yelped when his arms were seized.

Odysseus’ expression was grim, and not entirely void of regret. “Perhaps you should have remained home, boy,” he said, then Patroclus was being hauled away by the two guards at his sides, unable to do anything but stare and fear what was to come.

 

***

“Remove his mask,” commanded Thetis, and one of the guards obliged, casting it carelessly to the floor.

They had taken him deep into the palace, well past where guests were allowed during the festival, and into a large chamber that Patroclus remembered to be very near the lodgings of the family themselves.

Now he felt naked without the piece of material tied around his face though his clothing was completely intact, bar a tear in his tunic that had occurred when one of the guards’ sword hilts had caught it in transit.

“You are aware of the numerous laws you are currently breaching, I imagine?” she phrased it as a question, but her expression warranted no answer. “Trespassing, invading a home uninvited, direct disobeyment of a banishment ordered by the king himself, to name but a few. As such the punishment, as I’m sure you realise, shall be grave indeed.”

Odysseus looked uneasy. A distant part of Patroclus wondered if it was guilt that had made him appear so. Or perhaps it was the queen’s obvious pleasure at the promise of another’s pain that caused it.

“There was a reason you were forbidden to return to this household, Patroclus son-of-none,” the insult stung like a brand. “You were a stain on it, to its reputation, and to the reputation of its prince most of all. You stunted him in ways no mother ever wishes to see her son, and he is thankful that you are no longer with us,” Patroclus swallowed, pain building in his throat. Was this true? Had he not cared for him at all? Did he truly believe all this? “You should be glad, I think, that it is I who should deal with you and not him. I can only imagine what would occur if the prince was aware of your presence on the premises.”

“As it happens the prince _is_ aware,” came a voice that rang like a bell of war. “It would be peculiar indeed were he not, considering that he was the one who allowed him entrance.”

Patroclus would never have dared to speak to Thetis the way Achilles did, but he held little fear for her; she was his mother, and he was to be king. All of a sudden, it seemed, it dawned on them all that this boy ‒ no, _man_ ‒ was the most powerful in the land.

The hands gripping Patroclus’ arms loosened at first, then released him completely at Achilles’ warning glare.

“My lord,” began Thetis, but Achilles cut her off with a swiftly raised hand.

“No,” he said, voice dripping with anger. “You have done enough, mother. Fellows, tell me;” he turned to Odysseus and the guards. “Does my dearest friend there look dead to you? Look to have been riddled with plague and buried eight years past?”

Odysseus glanced at Patroclus and shook his head in bewilderment, immediately followed by the guards. Patroclus risked a look at Thetis; her face was unreadable, her eyes dark. So that was what she had told him, her and Peleus. He wondered if the king had protested or if he, too, had thought it for the best.

“No, I had thought not. Then why, pray tell, is that what I have been led to believe for nigh on a decade?”

Thetis opened her mouth to reply, but no words were forthcoming. It was Achilles’ turn to shake his head.

“Enough,” he said. “I will have no more of this. Leave me with my companion. He is your business no longer, and under the protection of the future king. Is that clear?” Achilles held the gaze of each guard until he confirmed this and left the chamber. Odysseus went last, pausing at the door to turn to Patroclus and give him a respectful nod.

Patroclus felt odd. Odysseus had not been an unkind master, treating his servants better than could be said of a great many others in the court, and Patroclus didn’t even resent him for seizing him tonight; he was merely doing as he was instructed by his queen.

But never had Odysseus looked upon Patroclus as though he were his equal, and it was an odd sensation.

Finally, only the queen remained.

“He will be the death of you,” she said with a quaking voice that, for some reason, shook Patroclus to the core.

“Then so be it,” Achilles said.

“The men do not take kindly to what you have. It is an abomination,” her fingers curled and uncurled by her sides, and in that moment Patroclus saw nothing but a vulnerable, frail woman. He wondered if that was how Achilles always saw her.

“They will take kindly to their king, as it is in their interest to. Now, did I not tell you to be gone?” Achilles’ eyes blazed; he was terribly beautiful in his anger.

Thetis left without another word, the weight of what must have been the most disrespectful dismissal she had ever received in her life trailing behind her.

Then Achilles turned to look at Patroclus, who had not contributed a thing throughout this skirmish of words, and his anger dissipated entirely.

“Patroclus,” he murmured, and Patroclus’ eyes swam with sudden tears to hear that slow, deliberate pronunciation of his name again after so many years.

Achilles went to him, crossing the room in a few short strides, and took him in his arms.

“You knew,” was all Patroclus could manage to say. “You knew, all along, that it was me. How?”

“Well, for one, not once did you address me as ‘my lord’; or with any respect whatsoever, for that matter...” he trailed off with a mischievous grin, pulling back to look at him. “No, but I knew you as soon as I laid eyes on you. I’ll admit, I had to spy on you in the marketplace to be certain; your friend said your name ‒ she was the one who stopped me and told me they’d taken you, you know ‒ and then you turned around when I started playing that old lyre to the crowd.”

Patroclus silently promised himself that he would thank Briseis to the highest degree he was now able to. “I _knew_ something was odd,” it suddenly struck Patroclus. “You were dressed as a beggar, but there was no coin collection in sight. You realise the predatory stalking is somewhat perturbing, yes?”

“To be fair, I went initially to escape the palace and purchase a disguise, and confirming your identity was an added bonus. That said, however, yesterday I did go simply to see you without your mask on once more.” Achilles chuckled, but then seemed to see the swirl of unsurety still settled in Patroclus’ eyes.

“Truly? You thought I wouldn’t recognise you?” Achilles murmured, incredulous.

Patroclus inclined his head, “I’ve changed, and the masks…”

“Patroclus,” Achilles tilted his face up with a gentle finger under his chin. “I would recognise you in total darkness, were you mute and I deaf. I would recognise you in another lifetime entirely, in different bodies, different times. And I would love you in all of this, until the very last star in the sky burnt out into oblivion.”

 _Love you,_ Patroclus mouthed, bewildered. Then he closed the scarce distance between them to kiss Achilles as he’d always longed to do, hands firmly planted on his chest.

Achilles made a noise surprisingly small and delicate for someone of his gravity, then he was returning the kiss with a passion that had Patroclus clinging to him with the need to be closer. Achilles nearly lifted him off of his feet, strong arms gripping him just right around the waist. Their lips parted, and Patroclus could feel the longing in his gut soaring in triumph, could feel his face flushing, his heart pounding.

Days, months, decades passed before they parted, and somehow only a few moments. Patroclus was reeling, warm all over, unable to do anything but gaze in disbelief at Achilles. He touched his mouth, smiled, nearly forgot to breathe.

“What now?” asked Achilles. His eyes were dark with want, his grip insistent on Patroclus’ waist, but still he sought permission as was only right.

“Now?” Patroclus responded with an innocent smile, then bent to the floor and scooped up his fallen mask with one finger. “I have something I must return to Lord Chiron,” he said.

Achilles laughed and pulled him closer.

“He can wait,” he said.

And he did.

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I went to see Into the Woods two days after having my heart shattered by SoA and during On The Steps of the Palace I thought to myself, "Hey, what if I AU'd this?" and then butchered the entire concept and now here we are.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed.
> 
> Oh, and if you were wondering (you weren't, but humour me): at some point after this Achilles marries Briseis for the sake of appearance and she has a lovely completely loving and healthy relationship with another man who understands the situation and Achilles and Patroclus remain disgustingly in love and very much together for the rest of forever and ever and it all ends happily ever after and they also get a dog or something because dogs are cool.
> 
> I'm [cityelf](http://cityelf.tumblr.com) &/ @[IsenardWeeps](http://twitter.com/isengardweeps). Please come talk to me, I have very scarce few SoA friends. I am a fandom baby. I've literally been here since Monday. I'm shutting up now.


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